


36 Hours

by plusqueparfait



Category: The Brave (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Post-Episode: s01e11 Grounded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 02:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13694556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plusqueparfait/pseuds/plusqueparfait
Summary: It's only 36 hours. She can handle 36 hours.An episode tag to Grounded.





	36 Hours

-o-o-

It’s only 36 hours, Jaz tells herself. She can handle 36 hours.

She watches through the window of her tiny room as the four of them climb into the Humvee that will take them to the airstrip. The sun is just peeking out over the horizon, the dawn light slowly beginning to take the edge off the darkness.

She hadn’t even said goodbye or good luck or be safe. Had just stormed back to her quarters after Dalton shut her down. 

When the tail lights fade out of sight, she sinks back into her pillows. It’s not even six, and she has nowhere to be and nothing to do and no one to talk to. She should go back to sleep, should try to catch up on some of the hours and hours she’s missed over the past three weeks. 

But the second she lies down, she feels the anxiety thrumming through her veins. Her legs start aching and her heart rate ticks up, and for some reason she can’t quite get a full breath in. 

So she wanders back into the kitchen and finds two half-empty mugs, the remnants of Grandma Carter’s No-Fail Naptime Tea. 

She sits down at the table, and it’s absolutely silent. No snoring, no whispered conversations, no feet softly padding down the hall.

She digs her nails into her palm, forces herself to breathe. 

This is the first time she’s been alone since it happened. 

It’s fifteen hours to Colombia, fifteen hours back, and a few hours on the ground. Thirty-six hours max.

She can handle 36 hours. 

-o-o-

Except that maybe she can’t. They’re not even in Colombia yet -- they’ve barely even reached the Atlantic -- and Jaz finds herself unable to concentrate and unable to relax. 

It’s just too quiet in here.

For three weeks they’ve been solidly, quietly beside her. She’s never been alone -- for the first few days, while she was still recovering from her injuries, either Dalton or McG had slept on the floor of her room. Ostensibly that was so they could keep an eye on her concussion -- but she’d suspected it had more to do with making sure she’d felt safe.

Every time she’s had a nightmare, someone has been by her side in seconds. Every time she’s been unable to sleep someone has sat up with her. Every time she’s frozen, mind unconsciously drifting to a white room with blood spattered across the floor, one of her boys has been with her. Silent, no judgment.

Just there.

And now they’re not. 

For three weeks, just being able to look at their faces, hear their voices, be in their presence has calmed her. 

And what if something happens to you? she’d tried to ask Dalton, after he’d kicked her off the mission.

If anything happens to you, I would never forgive myself.

-o-o-

It’s the longest day of her life, and she spends it running herself into the ground -- quite literally. 

She runs thirteen miles through the woods off-base, then throws in some sprints on the cinder track for good measure. She does pull-ups until she can no longer lift her arms, then -- when that still hasn’t settled the anxiety stirring in her stomach -- she punches the heavy bag until her legs give out.

She still can’t manage to fall asleep.

-o-o-

She makes boxed mac and cheese for dinner, manages four bites, and dumps the rest into the trash can. She picks at a bag of baby carrots, shoves it back in the fridge.

They should have landed by now. 

And she should be there. With them. 

Her stomach hurts. 

She wonders who’s on overwatch. McG, she would assume, and she trusts McG with her life -- she trusts all of them with her life -- but she’d feel better if it were her. If she knew where they were, if she knew what was going on. 

She can’t stand this feeling of helplessness. 

-o-o-

She drinks half a beer, but it makes her feel nauseous, so she pours the remnants down the drain. 

The silence is oppressive. 

She lies down on the couch, closes her eyes. The first image that floats past her lids is Top -- bloodied, beaten. 

Dead.

She jumps off the couch. 

Shit. 

-o-o-

She spends the night pacing. Every sound makes her jump, every flash of light through the window steals her breath.

At 1:04 AM, she tries to make tea, but it doesn’t have the same calming effect as Preach’s concoction.

Or maybe it’s just Preach.

At 1:36, she thinks about calling Hannah or Noah, just to make sure everything’s okay. She’s gone as far as opening the secure laptop before she talks herself out of it. It’s just not appropriate.

Besides, she doesn’t want to distract them. Not if they’re right in the middle of it.

At 1:57, she flips open her iPad and taps the Netflix app. She spends twelve minutes absently scrolling through recommended entertainment options. Watches 90 seconds of a documentary about food, then four minutes of a TV drama about cowboys.

Slams the cover back on and tosses the device aside.

At 2:19 she checks her email. Nothing new.

At 2:26 she takes a shower, hoping the hot water will help her relax. All it does is tighten the band wrapped around her chest.

At 2:51 she lies down on her bed. Closes her eyes and breathes in and out and in and out.

They’re okay. She’s okay. It’s all okay. 

-o-o-

She’s still wide awake at 3:22, counting to one hundred over and over and over again, when her phone buzzes in her hand.

Heart pounding, she sits bolt upright. Her hands are shaking as she swipes open the text. 

Preach.

All good. Wheels up in 30. See you tonight.

There’s a sob of relief, and she looks around, startled, to see where it came from. 

She’s all alone in her dark room. 

Thanks. Have a good flight. 

It’s short. Impersonal. Empty. But it’s all she can manage. 

She sets her phone on the bedside table and lets herself cry for 60 seconds.

-o-o-

After Xander leaves, she sits alone in the armchair, staring into space. 

She doesn’t know if she can learn to live with this. Doesn’t know how this feeling could possibly pass. 

She’d been in Iranian custody for 36 hours. Thirty-six hours of torture and brutality, which had left her with scars across her body and near-constant headaches and a persistent ringing in her ears. Thirty-six hours of threats and terror and the worst pain she’d ever experienced or imagined.

And yet the only thing that keeps her up at night is the thought of those pictures. The only dream that wakes her in tears is one where the sick bastard dumps Dalton’s severed head in her lap, instead of just a poorly doctored photo.

She’d always known that she could lose her teammates. She had lost teammates, and had lived through it, and moved on and kept going. 

But now she wonders if maybe there’s a limit. If maybe a person can only handle so much -- so many tragedies, so much pain. 

But then...does she have a choice?

-o-o-

The sun is setting as the Humvee pulls up.

It feels so much more hopeful than yesterday’s grim sunrise. 

Jaz watches from the picnic table as Dalton eases the vehicle to a stop, as her team tumbles out.

Her guys.

They’re laughing and joking, still amped from the mission even after fifteen hours on a C-130. Preach and Amir are ribbing McG pretty hard -- something about a girl, from what she can hear -- but Dalton is hanging back, quietly gathering his gear from the trunk.

Apart. Alone. 

“Jaz-zy!” McG shouts, spotting her first. He points at her and winks like he’s a rockstar and she’s a fangirl at a concert. She rolls her eyes, suppressing a smile as she pushes off the table.

“How’d it go?” she asks, trying to sound casual. Normal.

“Well, Joseph here had a pretty good day,” Amir says, and McG punches him in the arm.

“Dude,” he says, smirking. “Not my fault women go for men with some height.”

“Okay, seriously, McG,” Amir argues, puffing out his chest like a peacock about to strike. 

“Do I ask?” Jaz sighs, and Preach shakes his head.

“No. You definitely don’t.” He shoves McG and Amir apart. “You two are worse than my daughters.”

Jaz laughs, feeling the knot in her chest loosen. 

They’re all here. Safe. Healthy and whole and together, and she lets herself smile and focuses on how lucky she is to have that. To have them.

Preach pats her shoulder, winks at her. “Aright, Imma go shower and then let’s get this barbecue started!”

“I already called dibs on first shower!” McG protests, and then the three of them are bickering their way into the Quonset hut, and Jaz is still grinning, shaking her head.

For the first time since Tehran, she feels almost normal. 

She looks up to find Dalton watching her from a few feet away, backpacks slung over each shoulder. 

“Hi,” she manages. 

He smiles at her. “You okay?” he asks, and she’s not sure if he’s referring to their fight yesterday, or the thirty-six hours alone, or her chat with Xander.

Or all of it, maybe. 

She nods. “I’m glad you’re back,” she says, and his smile grows a little wider. 

“You too,” he says.

He wraps an arm around her, guiding her inside. 

Home.

-o-o-


End file.
